The barrel was finished.
It lay on the workbench, a three foot long tube of dark gleaming steel. It was heavy, far heavier than any weapon a normal soldier would want to carry, but it was perfect. The inside, bored out by the water wheel, was smooth enough to slide a finger down without catching a snag.
Mott the blacksmith was slumped in the corner, drinking ale with trembling hands.
"I did it," Mott mumbled, staring at the tube. "I made a pipe out of solid steel. My father would say I am lying. My grandfather would say I am a wizard."
"You are not a wizard Mott," Andar said, running a cloth soaked in oil over the metal. "You are an industrialist."
Andar picked up the wooden stock. He had carved it himself from the heartwood of an ironwood tree. It was dense and heavy, designed to absorb the recoil that would surely break a lesser wood.
"Now comes the heart," Andar said.
He laid out the small intricate pieces of metal on the table.
The trigger. The spring. The hammer. The frizzen.
This was the Flintlock mechanism.
To a modern eye it was primitive. To a medieval Westerosi it was a puzzle box of madness.
"Mott bring the light closer."
For the next four hours the two men worked in silence. Andar assembled the lock mechanism with the precision of a watchmaker. The mainspring had to be tempered perfectly. Too hard and it would snap. Too soft and it would not create enough force to strike sparks.
Click.
Andar pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward, the piece of flint clamped in its jaws striking the steel frizzen.
Snap.
A shower of bright yellow sparks fell into the empty flash pan.
"Beautiful," Andar whispered.
He fitted the barrel into the stock and screwed the lock plate into place. He tightened the iron bands that held the barrel to the wood.
He lifted the weapon. It weighed nearly twelve pounds. It was brutal and ugly and terrifying.
"What do we call it?" Mott asked, looking at the strange metal club.
"The Musket," Andar said. "Type One."
The courtyard was cleared.
Andar stood twenty paces away from the target.
The target was an old breastplate, rusted and dented, strapped to a thick log of pine. It was the best armor they had in the armory, capable of stopping a sword swing or a distant arrow.
Behind Andar the entire population of Deepwood Keep had gathered. They stood on the walls, peered out of windows, and huddled by the stables.
They whispered nervously.
"Is he going to cast a spell?"
"Look at the smoke stick. It looks like a dragon tooth."
"Jory says he boiled pee to make the black dust. It is witchcraft."
Andar ignored them. He held the musket vertically.
He reached into a leather pouch and pulled out a paper cartridge. It was a small tube of paper holding a measured dose of the black powder and a round lead ball.
He bit the top of the paper off. He tasted the bitter salty tang of saltpeter.
He poured a pinch of powder into the flash pan and closed the frizzen.
He poured the rest of the powder down the barrel. He shoved the lead ball in after it. He pulled the ramrod from beneath the barrel and drove the ball down until it sat tight against the powder charge.
Thud. Thud.
He replaced the ramrod.
He raised the weapon.
The Musket was heavy but Andar kept his arms steady. He pressed the wooden stock against his shoulder. He lined up the simple iron sight at the end of the barrel with the center of the rusty breastplate.
The wind held its breath.
Old Cullen covered his ears. Jory squinted.
Andar squeezed the trigger.
Click.
BOOM!
The sound was not like anything they had ever heard.
It was not the twang of a bowstring. It was not the clash of swords.
It was a crack of thunder that erupted from the ground. A massive cloud of white grey smoke exploded from the barrel, blinding Andar for a second and filling the courtyard with the smell of rotten eggs and hellfire.
The horses in the stables screamed and kicked their stalls. The villagers ducked, some falling to their knees in terror.
Andar lowered the smoking weapon. His shoulder throbbed from the kick but he was grinning.
The smoke cleared.
Andar walked toward the target. Cullen and Jory followed him, stepping cautiously as if the breastplate might explode too.
They reached the log.
There was a hole in the center of the breastplate.
It was not a clean slice like a sword would make. It was a jagged punched hole, the metal bent inward violently.
"Gods..." Jory whispered.
He walked around to the back of the log.
"My Lord! Look!"
The pine log, which was as thick as a man thigh, was splintered at the back. The lead ball had punched through the steel plate, traveled through six inches of solid wood, and exited the other side, embedding itself in the stone wall behind it.
Cullen touched the hole in the steel with a trembling finger. The metal was still warm.
"No arrow could do this," the old steward said, his face pale as milk. "Not even a scorpion bolt. It went through plate like it was paper."
He looked at Andar with a mix of fear and awe.
"What is this magic My Lord?"
Andar reloaded the weapon, his movements practiced and calm.
"It is physics Cullen," Andar said. "Force equals mass times acceleration."
He turned to the crowd. They were silent, staring at him as if he were the Stranger himself come to claim souls.
"Do not fear the noise!" Andar shouted. "This is the sound of safety! As long as we have this thunder no Wildling will touch our walls. No Ironborn will raid our shores."
He raised the musket high.
"This is the Stark Thunder!"
[Quest Complete: The Thunder of the North]
[Item Created: Flintlock Musket (Quality: Good)]
[Reward: Skill Book Basic Military Drilling]
[Territory Morale: +20 (Awe)]
Andar lowered the gun and handed it to a terrified Jory.
"Clean it," Andar ordered. "Hot water to dissolve the salts. Then oil it. If you let it rust I will have you clean the latrines for a year."
He turned to Cullen.
"We leave for Winterfell in two days."
"Two days?" Cullen started. "But My Lord we only have one thunder stick. Is that enough for a gift?"
"One is a curiosity," Andar said, walking back toward his tower. "I intend to make five. And I intend to drill a squad of musketeers to march with me."
He stopped and looked at the hole in the breastplate one last time.
"King Robert loves war," Andar murmured to himself. "He loves power. When he sees this he will not care about furs or timber."
He looked at the grey sky.
"He will want to buy the North."
...…
Author Note
Hi guys! Thank you for reading my fanfiction.
I wanted to let you know that I'm releasing bonus chapters for Power Stones. Here are the goals:
25 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
50 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
75 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!